


Staying Alive

by Arnie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epilogue, Gen, Missing Scene, Post The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnie/pseuds/Arnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock dealing with their reactions after the swimming pool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staying Alive

John's journey home from the swimming pool was far pleasanter than his trip _to_ the swimming pool. Instead of sitting, sweat beading on his forehead, in the back of a van, with two of Moriarty's minions keeping him company, he was next to Sherlock in the back of a taxi. No coat full of semtex, and no churning stomach as he faced the fact that this was likely to be it for John Watson. He sighed, letting his breath out jerkily. By rights, he and Sherlock ought to have been dead by now; blown up by that coat bomb in a dark swimming pool. By rights... Fortunately for all of them, Moriarty had got a better offer. _What_ better offer? The man had seemed determined to kill them - then a few bars of 'Staying Alive' (talk about ironic), a bit of conversation, and he was off. Leaving them behind, alive and - if John was honest with himself - shell-shocked.

"Are you all right?"

John forced himself to nod. "Yeah." Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed fine. Maybe dealing with Mycroft all his life had been a good training ground for dealing with insane psychopaths who thought it perfectly appropriate to put people into semtex overcoats in order to play some kind of twisted game with a consulting detective.

"We'll be home soon," Sherlock said, his voice slightly hesitant.

Home. John hadn't thought he'd get to see Baker Street again.

The taxi stopped and John got out, stiffening his knees which still felt treacherously weak. He thought it'd be a bit ridiculous if he got back to Baker Street only to knock himself out by face-planting on the pavement. To his surprise, he felt Sherlock's hand under his elbow, and wondered if Sherlock had had the same thought.

'Christ, Watson, get a grip,' he told himself sharply. He'd been through worse; he'd _seen_ worse, and thinking of MacLean or Griffith, or the car bomb that had killed them, leaving bits of them and bits of their Jeep scattered across a road under the hot Afghan sun, wasn't going to help. On the contrary. John pushed the thoughts away and dragged his keys from his pocket, only to be forestalled as Sherlock unlocked the door and practically ushered John in.

John left Sherlock to lock up and hurried up the stairs. He wanted - _needed_ \- familiar surroundings though it felt almost a shock to walk in and see everything looking the same...normal. Even the skull on the mantelpiece seemed a long way away from blood and bombs and Moriarty's games. He'd barely taken two steps into the sitting room before Sherlock was behind him, his hand on John's back again.

"I'll make tea."

"Not for me." John shook his head. "I'm going to head for bed." He flicked a glance at Sherlock's face, pale eyes too intent on his own, and turned away. "I need sleep."

John took his time getting ready for bed, hoping his usual routine would soothe him, make it possible for him to rest. Finally, he was in bed. He turned off his lamp and waited for his eyes to adjust, for the darkness to thin out to dim grey with the light filtering in from the street outside. Idly, he let his eyes drift over the contours of his furniture standing dark against the paleness of his walls, then turned on his side. His room was quiet, with only the occasional car passing by in the street outside. John closed his eyes, then opened them, wishing, for once, that Sherlock was taking out his frustrations on the violin. Sherlock was probably tired too, he thought. Maybe even too tired to spend half the night playing Mozart or Beethoven, with the odd Ride of the Valkyries thrown in, just in case John had managed to drift off during the 1812 Overture (until moving in with Sherlock, John hadn't thought it was possible to play that on the violin). Tonight, though, there was silence.

Sighing again, John closed his eyes tightly. He was tired; all he had to do was wait and he'd fall asleep, he was sure of it.

_"Johnny Boy..."_

God, Moriarty had been irritating. That lilting, mocking 'Johnny Boy' and 'people do get sentimental about their pets'. Bastard.

John turned over and wrapped his arms around himself, snuggling down under the duvet to ward off the chill. Moriarty was gone, for now, though John knew they hadn't seen the last of him. Whatever. He was gone and John really needed to sleep.

_"Now, you and I both know Sherlock will come running to meet me...and he'll find you!"_

Sherlock's face when he'd seen John. John had never seen him look so...vulnerable. Irritated, yes; impatient, undoubtedly; but vulnerability wasn't something John associated with Sherlock. But that split second when he'd thought John was Moriarty... John never wanted to see that look on his face again.

Enough! It was over. They knew who Moriarty was, and Sherlock was bound to figure out a way to stop him - if not, Mycroft probably would. He'd kidnapped John just for moving in with Sherlock; God knew what he'd do to Moriarty. There. That was a comforting thought.

John sighed and closed his eyes again. Maybe Lestrade could help; John would ask him in the morning when he went over their statements - though John didn't doubt someone like Moriarty was beyond normal legalities. He'd said he didn't like to get his hands dirty, but there had to be proof, right? A way to connect him to Janus Cars, the faked painting...the blown up building and twelve people dead.

The bomb.

'Go to sleep, Watson,' he ordered himself. The bomb was in Scotland Yard's hands, and Lestrade was undoubtedly cursing Sherlock under his breath for leaving him with a sleepless night doing paperwork. He'd be in a foul mood in the morning, and Sherlock wouldn't help with that, so, John would need his wits about him in order to stop Sherlock from alienating Lestrade completely and getting them both arrested.

John wriggled around and got himself comfortable. All he needed to do was sleep; he could cope with everything in the morning.

Sherlock. Sherlock standing there with laser sights on his face and chest.

John took a shuddering breath, shoved back his covers and swung his legs out of bed. It was useless, completely useless. He'd go downstairs and make tea - maybe read a book until he couldn't keep his eyes open any -

His door was open slightly. It hadn't been open, but now it was, the light from the hall a bright, beaming column in the grey of his room.

His heart hammering in his chest, John moved silently to the door and pulled it open, then blinked as Sherlock scrambled to his feet from where he'd been sitting.

"What were you doing?!" John demanded.

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and looked down at him, his face even paler than normal. "Sitting in the hall," he replied, as though it made total sense. "I'm going downstairs now. Tea?" He didn't wait for John to answer but clattered off down the stairs.

John watched him go, his mind whirling. What on earth...

Oh.

John followed him down into the kitchen and switched off the kettle. "Come on." Grabbing an arm, John towed Sherlock into the dark bedroom and up to Sherlock's bed. "You should put your pyjamas on," he advised him, then got into bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to sleep. Get a move on or I'll steal the duvet."

After a few seconds, there was the rustling of clothes, then the bed dipped behind him.

"I hope you've got your pyjamas on or people really will talk," John commented.

"I have." There was silence for a long moment, then Sherlock's weight pressed heavily against his back. "I just needed to hear you breathe."

"I know." John smiled in the darkness. "You're not the only one who can figure things out."

There was a quiet sigh from Sherlock, and John closed his eyes and let sleep carry him off.

The end.


End file.
